


Welcome Home

by Kyla_Wren



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Amara is my GIRL and I LOVE her, Amara's room is the best, F/M, Sanctuary III is so pretty and cozy, ain't nobody with that hair and that body actually an "old man", brief mention of hypo needle, my headcanon is that Amara is 30ish and Zane is 40ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 11:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21015068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Wren/pseuds/Kyla_Wren
Summary: The vault hunters relax, for once. Sleepy romantic fluff.





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> I was so desperate for fic of these two that I wrote it myself.

Amara grunted with relief as they reconstructed inside Sanctuary III. She reached behind her back to drop her shotgun into its holster, its ammo run dry, and glanced at her companion to make sure he was all in one piece.

Zane, just like the siren, was covered in Eden 6's tenacious swamp mud. The operative was still standing exactly where he had appeared. He cursed quietly to himself as he checked the stats of his new weapons with his echo device, a nightly ritual that he performed before taking care of anything else. _ He must feel fine _.

Amara suppressed a laugh, watching him while she unwound the scarf from her waist and dropped it on the floor. She pulled off her boots, enjoying the dry cold air in her lungs and the frigid metal sheeting underfoot. The slight tang of machinery and recycling filters was a welcome taste after the stink and humid heat of the planet below.

"Just going to stand there in your own sweat?" she teased. 

"Yeah, yeah, girly. All in good time." Zane tapped his echo screen, marking items as junk to sell or treasure to keep.

Amara shrugged off her vest and pulled off the mud-soaked jeans that had been much more expensive than their many rips and tears would suggest. Even though their home suite on this ship was an open layout, and random Pandoran refugees were always around (several were using the pool table even now), Amara wasn't embarrassed to walk around underdressed. The thought would never cross her mind - her body was powerful, more likely to inspire awe and fear than any other emotion. Her tattoos glowed across the expanse of her muscular frame, reminding everyone in sight that they were dealing with a siren. _ I am the tiger whose stripes burn bright. _

She left the laundry for a cleaning bot. It was a luxury she would never take for granted - the memory of her mother washing clothes on Partali stirred deep in her memory, a reflex that she quashed before it became a coherent thought.

Zane gave her an appreciative glance, the corners of his mouth curving despite himself. She flexed an arm in his direction and winked before striding to her room. 

"Vault Hunter's back-"

"Wow, look-"

The snap of her sliding door cut off the hushed whispers of the pool players.

The silence of her room was always full. Full of starlight, and the memories that seeped from each of her possessions like ink blooming into water, milk blooming into tea. The purple LEDs cast their cheery glow, the incense lent spice and jasmine to the cold sterile air, and Amara felt at peace.

She tapped the punching bag as she passed like she was greeting an old friend and pulled the tie from her hair, feeling the rougher dyed ends slip through her fingers. Allowed free, her hair reached down her back and tickled what still felt like a serious wound from the last battle. 

Amara opened the hidden panel of her wardrobe, turning to inspect her back. There was a healing burn between her shoulder blades, fading under the influence of hypos. She had Zane to thank for that. Without his help she'd be a charcoal briquette ready for an Eden 6 barbeque.

During the fight down below they'd had each other's back many times, just as they had since the first long Pandoran day they met. In battle they fell into an easy rhythm: Amara would rush into a room, Phaseslam to knock down whoever was close enough, and then start her happy work of punching bandits into tiny pieces. Zane would be right behind her, sending his digiclone and drone in opposite directions and gunning down everyone in sight.

Sometimes they got too confident, too hasty. The rush of battle could get both of them in trouble, make them take on an opponent too big and too close, all by themselves, as adrenaline pumped in their veins and drowned out any warning bells.

That's why they worked so well as a team. Just yesterday she had picked Zane up off the floor, sprawled on his back with a pack of parasitic bandits closing in. She'd blasted them to the four winds before jamming a hypo into his shoulder and telling him to _keep_ _shooting for_ _fucks_ _sake_ until it worked its magic.

Before Pandora, Amara would have never seen herself as anything but a lone wolf, and she knew Zane had felt the same. Now it was incredible to think they had both survived so long without backup.

She took a shower, washing her hair and hissing when the water hit her burn. Maybe one more hypo from Tannis before bed was in order. 

Still, it was hard to motivate herself to leave her room. Wrapped in a towel, she sat in the nook under her window and let the water run from her wet hair over her shoulder, feeling the exhaustion in her bones weigh her down. It was pleasant to tap through her echo, look at pictures of Ellie's cars and let her mind empty after a sixteen hour day of fighting and running.

It used to be worse, that traitorous part of her mind whispered. So insistent on making her remember. Not letting her just enjoy what she had._ Remember when there was no rest at the end of the day, no peace to be had, no safety. _

She didn't realize that she was staring at the same picture without seeing it until there was a brief knock at her door. 

It was the same friendly staccato he always used. Amara didn't hesitate before pressing the release button on the nook wall that opened her door. Zane was leaning in the doorway, probably trying to look cool, but still caked in swamp mud.

"Shower's broken in mine. Mind if I use yours?"

"Why not?" Amara smirked at him and shut the door remotely as he entered. Something about the man usually made her laugh, whether he was trying to be funny or not.

"Thanks, lovely."

Zane started pulling off his jacket, taking it into the small bathroom with him instead of leaving it on her pristine floor. She had noticed that he was barefoot already, which was nice - he remembered her policy about shoes, for once. (Her bed was close to the floor, for skag's sake.)

"What took you so long?" She called in his direction. The door was open, and she could hear the water running.

"Sellin' at Marcus'," he called back, in that singsong voice with an accent Amara couldn't place.

"Ah."

She took the edge of her towel and wrung the last of the moisture from her hair. She had to sell too, tomorrow morning before they set out again, and buy some more grenades if she remembered. There was a lot to keep track of. Even more to do. She thought about jotting some notes down, and ended up thinking about Partali instead. Her first boxing match. The ring in the basement of a warehouse, and how the crowd was all betting against her. Last time _ that _ ever happened.

"Picturin' somebody you'd like to punch?"

Zane pointed out the line of her stare towards her punching bag as he strolled out of the bathroom. Wearing one of her towels and dripping water on her floor, very cheeky all around.

"You, maybe," she tugged him down by his waist to the seat beside her, her fond tone belying her words. "Purple looks good on you."

"Aye, I'd say so." He immediately took her shoulders and angled her back to him, sweeping her damp hair aside with gentle fingers. "How's your little light toasting doing?"

"See for yourself."

He moved her towel down almost reverently, touching between her shoulders where the skin felt hot. He whistled, and she could hear the frown in his voice when he spoke.

"Feckin' flamethrowers. I stopped down at Tannis', too. Brought you another hypo."

"You know just what to say to a girl."

He went and retrieved it from his jacket pocket. She didn't bother to cover back up, turning to look out at the stars to distract herself from the pinprick. Zane rubbed her shoulder with his free hand, tracing her tattoos. 

Her temperature was finally adjusted, and the room was cold enough for her skin to goosebump. Zane was warm. She leaned back into his chest and let him snake his arms around her until every one of her muscles unwound.

"Thanks for the backup," she said, drowsy. "I don't think I said so earlier."

"No need to thank me." He kissed her shoulder, easy and warm and perfect. The hair of his goatee was soft against her collarbone. The hair on his head was even softer, released from sculpting gel and damp from his shower. He smelled like her soap. She dragged him down for a kiss. 

Her thoughts and movements began to blur into sleep-tinged warmth. She wanted Zane, and she wanted rest, in that order. He let her guide him to her bed, with its excess of pillows, and the softest sheets in the star system. Later he would tell her with a straight face that the bed was broken over at his, as well, and would she mind letting him stay the night?

She wouldn't have it any other way. Purple darkness wrapped them up, like blankets, like incense smoke.

She was safe, she was home. For once. For now.

The lights on Sanctuary III twinkled, hanging gold letters facing an infinite sea of stars. 

_ Welcome Home. _


End file.
